


And He Smiles

by ForLoveOfLiberTea



Series: lyrical compositions [3]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Longing, M/M, Songfic, canon-verse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-23
Updated: 2017-07-23
Packaged: 2018-12-05 19:16:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11584443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ForLoveOfLiberTea/pseuds/ForLoveOfLiberTea
Summary: "How can he help others so easily, when he doesn't notice that I—the nation who cared (and still cares) for him, the nation who he says is closest to him next to his brother—am in agony over him? How can he help others when he doesn't even help me?"In which he still waits, even when he knows no one can save him.





	And He Smiles

**Author's Note:**

> Song: "Waiting for Superman" by Daughtry. Lyrics have been edited slightly as needed.

_« He's watching the taxi driver, he pulls away._  
_He's been locked up inside his apartment a hundred days.._

_He says, "Yeah, he's still coming, just a little bit late._  
_He got stuck at the laundromat washing his cape."_  
_He's just watching the clouds roll by and they spell his name, like Lois Lane._  
_And he smiles, oh the way he smiles... »_

How long has it been? England doesn't know.

Perhaps he actually _does,_ somewhere inside of him, but he's long taken it for granted. It makes it easier—it makes _everything_ easier. He's figured out that abandoning his previously obsessive notice of the passage of time makes it easier to go through his days.

He's fallen into routine, actively ignoring the perpetual ticking of the clock on his mantel, ignoring the breeze stirring the pages of his calendar. He wakes up in the mornings, dulled eyes watching the London streets out of his window, before he drags himself up to get himself a breakfast of scones and tea. (And they are _not_ burnt, thank you very much—what the bloody frog says doesn't matter. Not anymore.) He heads downstairs, forgoing his previous habit of watching the news on the telly, and takes his now familiar place by the window with a spot of tea by his side.

And he waits.

He may be doing paperwork at times, or finishing a bit of embroidery he's dropped sometime over the past weeks, but he still waits. He waits, watching his people go through their lives out upon the streets.

He waits, because that's all he's gotten used to doing.

_« He's talking to angels, counting the stars,_  
_Making a wish on a passing car._  
_He's dancing with strangers, falling apart,_  
_Waiting for Superman to pick him up_  
_In his arms, in his arms... »_

Today is much like any other day.

It's been a month since the last World Meeting—another raucous gathering, of course, what else is new?—and England had ignored the stab of pain, the longing it brought when _he_ took the seat at the head of the table and grinned. He had introduced another one of his utterly idiotic ideas (honestly, when had building a giant robot to fix the ozone layer ever been a plausible idea?). And England had sat in his appointed seat and tried desperately to ignore the disappointment and hurt which rushed through him every time he— _America_ —avoided his gaze.

He tried to socialize with the other nations, to keep up the business transactions between economies. He still attended galas, business functions; he ate, drank, conversed and danced with strangers on his arm and by his side. But he's empty—hollow—and when he smiles he can see that they _know._ They know that it's fake, as is everything about him from his feigned enthusiasm and control to his every move.

It was routine. It was normality. It was— _is—_ the reality England hates with everything he is. ("Which isn't much," a voice inside him reminds him sarcastically.)

He's tired of longing for a past which is gone—perhaps forgotten by the American as well. He's tired of the bickering, the dismissive comments, the hurtful jabs at his old age.

He's tired of longing for the 'hero' who doesn't even notice a fellow nation in agony over him.

But he still waits in the hope that some day, somehow, it will change.

_« He's out on the corner trying to catch a glimpse,_  
_Nothing's making sense._

_He's been chasing an answer_  
_A sign lost in the abyss, this Metropolis.. »_

After the painful revolution, he had asked several of his fellow nations what he had done wrong. He'd asked, pleaded, tried to reason with himself, his fairies, anyone who could give him an answer.

After a few weeks, he attempted to drink the pain out of his head, his heart, his soul. After a few years, he was angry—at anyone who dared come near, at anyone who left him. After a few decades, he fell into depression and decline.

After the centuries passed, England became numb. It was a resigned acceptance, a melancholic agreement that it was over. It was done. His memories of that time with him was all he had left.

He isn't coming back.

It isn't the memories of the revolution which hurts him. It isn't that battle in the rain. It isn't even the stupid tea party at the harbor.

It's the moments they had together—happy, safe, content—which kills him.

_« He says, "Yeah, he's still coming, just a little bit late,_  
_He got stuck at the Five and Dime saving the day."_  
_He says, "If life was a movie, then it wouldn't end like this,_  
_Left without a kiss." Still, he smiles, the way he smiles, yeah.. »_

He wishes it's him he's helping, him who he pays attention to. The boy—no, he's a _man_ now, he remembers bitterly. He made it clear when he left, he knows, and it doesn't lessen the agony within him.

_("Sometimes, I wonder if it's just the pain which reminds me that I'm still alive," he remembers saying to France once, still mercifully sane amidst their sojourn into the pub that evening. It was a miracle he hadn't yet dissolved into drunken ramblings of his loneliness, his irritating vulnerability, his longing, his confusion with his religion. "Other than the bloody hurt, I don't feel anything anymore.")_

He wishes that America pays attention to him even once, even for a brief second. Really, truly notice how he's feeling behind the snappish remarks, the glares, the nagging, the refusal to attend his birthday parties. (He's always sick during that time of year, not that the boy knows—nor cares, of course.)

He's a self-proclaimed hero, England reminds himself again, sipping from his gradually cooling tea. He sticks his nose into others' business—aside from England's—and tries to 'help', all because he's a 'hero'. He laughs sarcastically to himself.

_How can he help others so easily, when he doesn't notice that I—the nation who cared (and still cares) for him, the nation who he says is closest to him next to his brother—am in agony over him? How can he help others when he doesn't even help me?_

_« He's talking to angels, he's counting the stars,_  
_Making a wish on a passing car._  
_He's dancing with strangers, he's falling apart,_  
_Waiting for Superman to pick him up_  
_In his arms, in his arms.._

_He's waiting for Superman,_  
_To lift him up and take him anywhere._  
_Show him love and climbing through the air,_  
_Save him now before it's too late tonight_  
_Oh, like a speeding light.. »_

He sets down his teacup with a heavy sigh.

He looks out the streets, painted golden with the sunlight indicative of a rare sunny day in London weather. England looks down at the book which rests in his lap, tracing the piece of paper he uses as a bookmark. It's faded, crinkling at the edges—evidence of its age—but his gaze softens.

It's a sketch he made of them a long time ago. Happy. Safe. Content.

He looks out to the streets once again, another sigh ghosting past his lips—

And he hears the door to his home slam open with a loud call he can only associate with one person—one man—one _nation_ in particular. England stiffens, bolting from his seat in an instant, heading towards the entry hall with little more than surprise cloaking his features. His thick brows furrow, lips turning down into a scowl, and he crosses his arms across his collared shirt and sweater vest-clad torso.

"Iggy!" America exclaims—so happily, so brightly—waving his arms around like a child might. (His heart pangs at the analogy, but he shoves the sensation aside.) "I came to save you! I'm the hero after all!"

He flinches, pursed lips tightening into a straight line. "Save me?" England echoes, and it reverberates around the house, empty aside from the two of them. He clears his throat, repeating himself, "Save me from _what,_ you bloody tosser?"

America blinks, as if not at all expecting the question. His grin falters, just the slightest, but it soon comes back full force—just as forceful as the energy he exerts as he bounds forward, engulfing the island nation in a bear hug, nuzzling into his shoulder.

"From your loneliness, of course!"

England blinks, freezing where he stood. He doesn't know what to do with his hands, his heart's beating too fast, there's a familiar burn to the backs of his eyes.

But he feels America hug him tight. He looks up at him and says— _"I'm still here."_

_And he smiles._

_« He's talking to angels, he's counting the stars,_  
_Making a wish on a passing car._  
_He's dancing with strangers, he's falling apart,_  
_Waiting for Superman to pick him up,_  
_In his arms, in his arms._

 _He's waiting for Superman,_  
_To lift him up and take him anywhere,_  
_Show him love and climbing through the air._  
_Save him now before it's too late tonight,_  
_He's waiting for Superman.. »_

« end »


End file.
